When I die, somebody please read this beautiful excerpt at my funeral:
"What do you think has become of the young and old men?
And what do you think has become of the women and children? They are alive and well somewhere,
The smallest sprout shows there is really no death,
And if ever there was it led forward life, and does not wait at the end to arrest it,
And ceas'd the moment life appear'd.
All goes onward and outward, nothing collapses,
And to die is different from what any one supposed, and luckier."
- Song of Myself, Walt Whitman